038: Blush
by Werewolf's Oneshots
Summary: God was not kind. He did not want you to remember the joy, He wanted you to remember the moments of misfortune and Hell. That's why He made flesh and blood stunning crimson, and the rest of the earth as gray and heartless as stone.


_**Rated M, & spoilers.**  
"God, Lawrence had decided, was not kind. He did not want you to remember the happiness or joy, if you were so blessed with such rare gifts. He wanted you to remember the moments of Hell that shone through the gray and weary world. That's why He made flesh and blood stunning crimson, and the rest of the earth as gray and heartless as stone."_

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The girl was pink and creamy like blood smeared over the moon.  
They conversed that night, of his brother and mother and father, mostly. She'd been so close, and her light, cherry lips had stole his attention. He imagined reaching out and touching them, stroking their softness with his fingertips. How could anything alive be so bright? How could anything so pleasant be the color of hell? He handed her Ben's items gently. Her fingers opened to take the offerings, pink, soft, pale. Feminine and tender. Tears ran down her cheeks and he had the sudden urge to hold her in his arms he saw the reddening around her eyes. As he walked from her door minutes later he saw her beautiful face in his mind, blood cascading from her open throat and a straight-razor in her hand.

The funeral affected him, made him remember things.  
He dwelled in his own mind more than the mortal world. Everything existed in shades of gray, until that night. Then he remembered only black, for the longest time. In bed, visions. Visions he did not want to remember.  
Gwen was at his bedside, and he was happy about that. There was something else at the back of his mind, but he couldn't be bothered. Not when she was around, with her pink candied lips and rosy nose. He reached out to stroke her face and hoped it was a dream; she kissed his hands with her vivid lips and it was. He drifted.

Now.  
Lucid again and not dreaming, of beauty or of beasts. Unpleasant encounters with doctors and inspectors have not scared him away, not yet. He skips stones, remembering again. Good things this time, his brother and mother mostly, his acting in America, Gwen's face. As if summoned by a genie she appears, wearing the most pleasant dress. It brings out her warm complexion, he thinks. It isn't terribly cold but her cheeks are blushing from exposure. He likes that. She comments on his rock skipping and he offers to show her how. Her hands feel cool and he wonders how they can at the same time look so warm and inviting. He is so close to her again, so close he can admire her skin. The blush makes her look so human, so vibrant, in the cold world. Even he seemed pale and dead in comparison. Her small body fits so well against his, until he hears horses.

Gwen is too kind to him.  
She dabs at his bleeding lip and he stares at her cheeks, her chin, her neck. Her body is close to him as he sits and she tends. Her cheeks are still pink, and her nose. He starts to fantasize. In his mind he pulls down her blouse, just a bit, and she keeps dabbing his lip. He unbuttons things and pulls at fabric and it's not just her cheeks that are pink but her nipples are as well. Pinker, if possible, like roses. Little flowers, soft and smooth against milky supple skin, creamy breasts. Her eyes close as he kisses her chest between them, up, up along her neck to her bright lips, then back down again. Lips to breasts. But something changes. He's kissing and then he's biting her, and she doesn't move but she's crying, and he has to stop and remember it's in his head. He looks at her again, through reality this time.  
Her flesh looks different now. It's not pink, it's tender; she's not red, she's ripe. Her pulse teases him, hidden right below the skin. He wants to get at it, find its source and play with the veins. He tells himself he is just attracted to her, her beauty and benevolence, and her candy-pink lips. He knows it isn't true, and though he craves her, he sends her away that night.

It is a long time before Lawrence sees her again.  
Many days have gone by since he's thought of her, even. The flush of her skin was replaced by the shredding of flesh, but only for a night. He wants to see her, wants to say goodbye. He finds her quickly, to his surprise. He can find her welcome scent even after so long apart, even when the moon wasn't high. He takes refuge in her home and dreams of her, dreams her into reality, because soon she's there and holding him again. He feels like weeping, but seeing her smooth face flush with surprise and compassion fills his heart. And suddenly she is saying exactly what he wants to hear, saying that she understands and he must let her help him. Somebody is coming from outside, and he doesn't want her to get hurt. He kisses her, tries to remember forever the feel of her lips. He turns and leaves through the back, over a fence and to the front street again, all before she can answer the door. Her screams echo in his mind as he flees.

He doesn't see her but he smells her, and he remembers her soft, blushing flesh.  
He remembers the feel of her lips even when he has none, when he only has fangs. He wants to devour her, tear her flesh, because he loves her. So many distractions. His father isn't one of them anymore. He feels little remorse for the man who he called father, and even littler interest in his burnt cadaver. He wants Gwen. He takes a bite out of somebody; not her, to his chagrin. The inspector. He stays and fights. She flees, and he imagines her all flushed and pink and red, and feels desire and hunger. But the pursuit matters more, and he takes off. Into the forest. If only she knew how striking her warm skin was against those cold trees.  
By the brook again. He smells animals and humans, both prey he supposes, though none of it matters quite as much as her. He wants to rip her to shreds, remove clothing then skin then muscle. He wants to turn her completely scarlet. She is talking and he doesn't care; she has a gun and he still doesn't. It has the smell of that inspector, the one whose blood is decorating his muzzle at that very moment. He licks his face and fangs and falls on her. So close to satisfaction. But he can't do anything. He wills his claws to dig in and they sit useless, sinking into the moss below them. He's got her pinned and helpless, unwilling to use the gun, but he cannot take action. Why now does he understand what she is saying? She's calling for him. Her face is the pinkest he's seen, wet with tears. Her eyes are reddened, nose angrily flushed. She tells him "it's Gwen" over and over, and he remembers. Of course he remembers warm, pink, lovely Gwen. He stares at her, stares into her, until a threatening noise in the background makes him look up. He makes an angry snarl. How dare they interrupt?  
Gwen shoots him. He flinches, but the only thing he can think of is how she is not pink but pale for that moment. Fear does that, he reasons to himself. She is scared and sad, and he wishes he could do something about it. Things become clear, and he remembers his father and he is relieved. Gwen is sobbing, he is in pain again. But turning back is somehow much less painful. The best way he can describe it is coming home: after years of traveling with strangers, returning to somewhere you love. If not for the bullet he would have felt better than he's ever been. He wants to take her in his arms, but he's fading fast and he knows it. "Thank you" is all he can say, thank you thank you thank you. He feels like he could explode from gratitude. The curse is gone, he knows, gone forever. Peace at last. His final memory, her flushing cheeks and rosy nose, her pale eyes watering and full of sorrow. She will never know how much he loved her; for her rose-colored cheeks, for loving his brother. And for saving him.

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_Prompt # 38: Pink_


End file.
